


An Invitation

by Sequesters



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, I fucking hate those two words, M/M, but that's literally all that is happening in this fic so I gotta tag it like that, touch-starved aziraphale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 16:34:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19794760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sequesters/pseuds/Sequesters
Summary: A small scene, post-notpocalypse, of Crowley and Aziraphale enjoying a moment together.





	An Invitation

“That meal was certainly SCRUMPTIOUS,” Aziraphale commented as he unlocked the bookstore’s front door, gesturing for Crowley to go in first.

“I’m glad you thought so,” Crowley said, absentmindedly tapping stacks of books as he sauntered through the shop, “Me? I was only in it for the wine.”

“Oh, dear boy, I _saw_ you sober up when you thought I wasn’t looking,” Aziraphale smirked, delight bubbling through him as he sidestepped around Crowley, “I think…you were just in it for the _company_.”

Crowley frowned at him, and pretended to be very interested in the Bible misprint directly in front of him, flipping through it aimlessly.

“Hah! This is the one where they spelled Gabriel’s name wrong through the whole-“ Crowley cut himself off midsentence as he saw Aziraphale sit down on his overstuffed sofa.

Expectantly.

“Speaking of _company_ ,” Aziraphale said, straightening up and laying his hands primly on his thighs, “Nobody is watching us right now, for the first time in millennia.”

“Uhm, yes, angel, I suppose you _are_ right about that,” said Crowley, a note of question in his voice, clearly thinking _where is this going?_

Quicker than a wink, Aziraphale tapped his hands on his thighs, twice.

Such a small movement would have been nearly imperceptible to the human eye, but Aziraphale KNEW that Crowley’s demonic eyes saw it, from the way they widened in shock.

Crowley looked up at Aziraphale’s face, back down at his lap, and then gestured with his hands back and forth between the two places while he tried to put his thoughts to words. 

“Is-is that an... _invitation?_ ” he asked, incredulous.

“Um, yes,” admitted Aziraphale, “Yes, it is.”

“Oh, thank FUCK,” sighed Crowley, crossing the room in two long strides and sprawling across Aziraphale’s lap.

Aziraphale took an involuntary deep breath when Crowley’s body came into contact with his own, and let it out slowly. Oh, he had _missed_ this. There _had_ been a few drunken nights where, inhibitions lowered by quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol, Crowley would lay his head on Aziraphale’s lap, ranting at length about Hell’s bureaucracy or marsupials or dolphins or whatever. Aziraphale, meanwhile, would nod along and pretend that this casual contact didn’t completely rock his world.

Now, he had never told Crowley this, but the first time that Crowley had laid his head in his lap was also the very first time that Aziraphale had ever experienced casual physical affection. Up in Heaven, unless you were having a meeting, angels normally stayed LIGHT YEARS away from each other, and emotionally? Even further than that. There was nothing Up There but the cold expanse of the celestial realm to keep you company, and that had always _bothered_ Aziraphale, in a way that he didn’t have a word for.

The humans, however, had a _very_ good word for it—touch starved.

Aziraphale was so, so touch starved.

So touch starved, in fact, that the once-a-century head resting in his lap would send him spinning with joy for days.

But this was no casual head-in-lap. Crowley was fully pressing himself against Aziraphale’s body like he BELONGED there. That contact carried with it all sorts of strange and powerful experiences, like a kind of electric zap when Crowley nestled his head into his chest, a biblical flooding of warmth as the new weight settled halfway across his torso…when that wily old serpent touched his hip ever-so-gently with a hand, the angel was nearly moved to tears.

Aziraphale looked down through misty eyes at the demon in his lap, the love of his very long life, and noticed that his snakelike eyes didn’t look so dry either.

The notion entered his mind that maybe Crowley was just as affected by this as he was.

The next notion to enter his mind, was the inclination to be a _little_ bit of a bastard.

He reached out and pressed a palm to the back of Crowley’s head, slowly running his fingers up, up, along the scalp, stroking locks of hair between his fingers until the strands fell away from his hand in a cascade of red.

Crowley made some sort of whining, humming noise, and his hold on Aziraphale tightened like a boa constrictor.

“Do it again,” he mumbled.

Aziraphale didn’t need telling twice. He explored Crowley’s hair with his fingers, twisting it, stroking it, miracling out a tangle or two, caressing it with the utmost affection.

Soon enough, the sheer intensity of touching and being touched faded to a feeling of warmth. A comfortable warmth, like the sun breaking through the clouds after a rain, like the heat of a family’s campfire where stories were shared, like the routine of having lunch with a friend, like the love that constantly emanated from Crowley and enveloped Aziraphale in the knowledge that he was loved in return.

Crowley suddenly looked up at Aziraphale, yellow eyes wide and vulnerable.

Aziraphale looked down at him, and tilted his head.

A moment passed.

Crowley’s forehead creased to ask the unspoken question: Was this too much, too fast?

Aziraphale almost laughed at that. It would take him a hundred years to describe exactly how much he wanted this, craved this, NEEDED this, down to the bare bones of his very SOUL. 

So he kept it simple.

“Well, this is nice,” said Aziraphale, softly, with only a hint of a tremor in his voice, “Don’t you think?”

Crowley nodded, eyes still damp and a tiny smile creeping at the corners of his mouth as he swallowed hard, Adam’s apple visibly bobbing.

“Yeah,” he said, voice clipped, “It is.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm........soft  
> I projected HARD on this fic you guys  
> I hope you enjoyed reading it


End file.
